Fire
by nonsequiturvy
Summary: In which Robin and Regina can't even cook for one another without turning it into a competition. Domestic Storybrooke OQ.


**A|N** This is a belated birthday present for my dear friend, **queenoflocksley**! Based on the tumblr prompt (paraphrased): Regina cooks for Robin on a chilly autumn day, while the boys are out with Emma.

* * *

 _fire_

* * *

There's a distinct bite to the air, clean and sharp, when juicy pops of red begin to blossom from her apple tree, slowly dotting the lawn in their first full showing of the season. Fall has arrived at Regina's doorstep, and it forges ahead, touching the skies and sweeping onward as she makes her way to the forest.

She pauses to admire the sunset of color painting the treetops, leafy beams shaken loose to scatter the earth at her feet. The wicker basket at her elbow grows heavier with her dawdling, so she resumes her brisk strides, heels stirring up fiery bursts of foliage. Each breath, deliciously chilled, tastes of the forest, familiar now for the various ways it has left its mark—smudged onto doormats, leaving dents in her pillows (her heart)—and it feels like coming home.

Though of course she would never under any circumstances admit such a thing to anyone.

§

The Merry Men milling about camp greet her in their own ways upon her arrival: a solemn nod from Friar Tuck, a gruff "hullo" courtesy of Alan-a-Dale, and Little John's wary but predictable refusal to meet her gaze head-on.

But she imagines he'll be singing a different tune once he catches a whiff of what she's planned to cook up for them. In the time that she's known John—having suffered a year's worth of meals in his gluttonous presence, and now here in Storybrooke, where he's developed quite an insatiable appetite for the lasagna at Granny's—the man has not been one to shy away from food of any kind, no matter how questionable the source.

Primly seating herself on the log with the least bit of moss, Regina unloads her basket of apples—glossy skins gleaming as though they carry a light of their own—and retrieves her paring knife. Her actions are swift but skilled, driven to single-minded focus by the familiar competitive thrill now kicking up her bloodstream.

Robin had started it the prior evening, determined to prove his mastery of modern appliances in preparing a meal fit for a Queen. (" _Mayor_ ," she had corrected him archly, earning her a playful slap on the bottom and a cheeky, dimpled "Apologies, milady" for her attitude.)

He'd put in a valiant effort, but to rather disastrous effect, as it turned out the concept of gas stoves and replacing blender tops _before_ pressing the on button were not immediately intuitive to a man more accustomed to starting his own fires and preparing every last ingredient by hand.

They'd picked at the severely charred remains in silence, Regina successfully managing a few bites by washing the bitterness down with generous sips of wine, before their gazes flicked together and small, rueful smiles erupted into breathless, hysterical laughter. They'd promptly abandoned their dinner in favor of a moonlit stroll to Granny's, Robin's arm slung around her shoulders to ward off the cold.

(It had taken considerable self-control not to tease Robin with the string of messages lighting up her phone while he sidled up to the bar to order their drinks. Henry, presumably, had just arrived home from his after-school projects, sending first a photo of himself standing scrunch-nosed in the kitchen, then carefully inspecting their plates on the dining table, followed by a _Mom. What_ is _this?_ )

That morning, after seeing Henry to the bus stop, Regina had chosen the fanciest apron from her closet and laid it out over her side of the bed, along with a note, mockingly penned:

 _For the next time you decide to make a mess._

Robin had worn the apron proudly over nothing but boxer briefs as he fixed their breakfast, winking saucily over his shoulder at her seated on a barstool in her night slip, sipping coffee (which, to his credit, wasn't actually half-bad) and enjoying the view. The eggs had turned out remarkably edible, and she was in the process of congratulating him, pressing herself to his chest and allowing his hands to wander beneath her hemline, when the smoke detector went off.

As she pulled a face at the state of her toast, he'd challengingly questioned her ability to fare any better in the woods without her fancy gadgets, before calling it a day. He'd whisked her back to bed, where he then proceeded to make love to her most thoroughly, in order to dispel any lingering impressions of inadequacy he might have given her in the kitchen.

He'd left her feeling satisfyingly sore in several places she couldn't name, which only furthered her resolve to upstage him later that evening.

After all, how hard can it be, cooking in a forest?

She had, however, already accepted a dinner invitation from Emma, which quickly escalated into a whole family affair, complete with the Charmings—detestably twee as ever—and (thank God) her own personal savior, Henry.

Regina had sat through it without having an absolutely horrible time, and kissed her son enough _goodnight_ s to last him through the weekend he planned to spend with Emma.

She'd intercepted Robin on his way to deposit Roland at the apartment she just vacated, for the boy's weekly sleepover with "big brudder" Henry. There were a few things she needed to pick up from the house, she'd told Robin, but she would meet him back at camp, with the promise of dessert awaiting his return.

"Not _that_ kind of dessert," she'd scolded him under her breath when Robin angled a mischievous grin her way. Pointedly evading his kiss, she'd planted one of her own atop Roland's curls, removing an entangled leaf (honestly; you can take the boy out of the forest…) as she instructed him to have as much fun as possible, _although do try not to keep Auntie Emma up all night_.

"Wish I could guarantee the same for you," Robin had murmured, leaning in close, spreading heat across her throat and elsewhere, further down, before sneaking in a nip of her earlobe. She'd muttered something disagreeable about what good a thief's word is worth anyway, blaming the way she flushed on the changing winds as she marched off, ignoring the rumble of laughter behind her.

She'd show him.

§

With renewed sense of purpose, Regina deftly quarters her apples and sets the slices aside with their peels still intact. Jostling stray seeds from her lap, she reaches next for her stash of cinnamon sticks, palming a handful of dried cloves and allspice. She's bundling them into a square of cheesecloth when Will Scarlet ambles too-casually by, a decidedly naughty look about him as he eyes the fruit with avid intent.

Realizing too late that she'd been smiling to herself, she promptly flattens it, arching an eyebrow and asking tartly, "How do you know the apples haven't been poisoned?"

Will's grin goes broad as the Chesire Cat's. Evidently taking her taunt as the closest to an offer he'll get, he snatches up a quarter-piece, catching it carelessly between his teeth.

He chews and savors and swallows with great relish, looking entirely too at ease and not nearly frightened enough for having gambled so boldly.

"Much obliged, Your Majesty," Will nods to her cheekily before sauntering off, as though all the stories of the Evil Queen might have been just that—mere stories, fashioned further into myth with each retelling, any claim to the truth now long forgotten.

Forgiven, even.

Accepted.

Feeling foolish, Regina finishes securing the four ends of cheesecloth together with hemp string and makes to toss everything into the pot of boiling water suspended above the campfire pit. As she peers over its wrought-iron edge, however, she finds to her dismay that the water is not boiling at all, and is in fact borderline cool to the touch, courtesy of the crisp autumn air.

Astonished, she casts her eyes down to the heap of day-old ash and kindle at her feet.

Fire. Right. Of course.

She nonchalantly turns to her left, then right, making a show of relieving some cricks in her neck in case anyone happens to be walking by. To her relief, it appears that the remainder of the Merry Men, sensing she must have been up to something important, have left her alone with their corner of forest.

More importantly, there's still no sign of Robin.

It wouldn't do for him to think she'd cheated in any way.

Regina crouches in front of the pit and tries to look very busy with her hands, tossing nearby twigs in at random amongst the encircling stones, then ostensibly reaches for the flint. Or at least, what she presumes to be the flint. She has absolutely no idea what to do with it, so she hefts it pointlessly up and down in her palm for several long, embarrassing seconds before letting it slip quietly to the ground, conjuring up a modest ball of flame in its place.

She sits proudly back as the fire crackles to a blaze, casting pockets of light and warmth to flirt with the growing shadow.

She's just stirred the caramel plus an overabundance of sugar into the slow-simmering cider when there's a telltale crunch of leaves underfoot behind her. She feels more than hears Robin's murmured greeting, a low-textured "Darling, I'm here" tenderly pressed to the base of her neck where it curves into shoulder.

"What's all this?" he wonders then with great interest, swinging his legs over the log and nudging her to relocate onto his lap. His arms tug across her middle and she has a hard time resisting the pull of him, the smile that forms unbidden (too late to deny it now, for he's already given his in return) when he traps her hand over the thud of his heart.

"Apple cider," she tells him, feeling a niggle of pride in her chest at the sound of his appreciative moan.

"Ah," he says with a deep inhale as he surveys her handiwork. His gaze settles on the firepit, cheerfully spitting up sparks in the air. "And you did all this without any…help?" he asks, with an innocence unbefitting a thief.

The implication baits her temper and she prickles instantly, remarking with some disdain, "I don't do damsel in distress." Robin deposits a rather indulgent kiss to her collarbone, lips curving into the unmistakable shape of a smile, and she's annoyed to feel a hitch in her breath. "I'll have you know I can be quite resourceful."

"I know it well indeed," he chuckles, and she's about to inquire what exactly he finds so funny when he withdraws a flask from his inner coat pocket. "Would your cider go well with this, do you think?"

She bites her lip to keep the grin at bay. "Is that—?"

"It's not anything magical, or so I've been told," he says, eyes dancing as he gestures to the gently bubbling cider. "May I?"

"It needs another hour at least," she tells him, and the cooked apples still need to be mashed, the pulp and spices thoroughly drained—had she remembered to pack her strainer?—but then a warmth that has very little to do with the campfire or the prospect of whiskey is uncoiling in her belly, her skin fairly feverish from the caress of his lazy perusal.

"Oh?" Resting the flask of whiskey against the log, Robin's hands begin to roam freely, scorching up and down her sides, over one thigh, below a knee. "Well, in that case…"

He swiftly cradles her into the air as he stands, holding her close with an easy grin and a deaf ear while she utters his name in objection.

"Put me down," she orders him indignantly, half-meaning it and fully hating how winded she sounds. The last thing she needs is his Merry Men bearing witness to her being handled in such an undignified manner—as if people like Will haven't already made a subtle mockery of her reputation, having seen her reckless enough to openly embrace her own happiness.

And while this particular patch of forest is perhaps not so uncivilized as she once might have claimed, it's still a far cry from the privacy of their living room, or the comfort of her couch cushions sinking beneath their joined weight.

Regina is considering more drastic measures when Robin dips into the hollow of her throat for a languid taste, chastising her into silence with a husky, whispered, "Now, milady, allow me to show you the _proper_ way of starting a fire." She stills, caught, in his arms, and he aims a laughing kiss at her guilty scowl.

One heel has been knocked loose to dangle precariously from her toes, and it wavers, dropping, when Robin hoists her just a touch higher, lost to the forest floor in a quiet rustle of leaves. She's feeling thoroughly (deliciously) uncomposed now, with a blooming smile she can't contain, while the thief makes off with his Queen to his tent, where he makes good on his word and, like flint to steel, sets her on fire with hands and lips and tongue.


End file.
